


Incomplete

by jairyn



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Character Study
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-17
Updated: 2018-07-17
Packaged: 2019-06-12 01:34:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15328800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jairyn/pseuds/jairyn
Summary: Not really a story, but a short little character study I did of Anakin to help me write part of my Rey theory.





	Incomplete

He paced his room fighting down his agitation. This couldn't be happening, not to him! He was the chosen one! And even though he resented that title and all its unwanted attention, it should count for something. The tears stung his eyes. First his mother, now this... it was almost as though losing her had taken a literal piece of himself.

 

It hurt, but it didn't make sense that it hurt. It wasn't even there anymore. He stopped pacing and stared down at his arm. He'd been so stupid! So rash! After losing his mother and almost losing Obi wan, he hadn't wanted to lose Padmé too. Was that really so terrible? His left hand trembled as he removed the glove, turning up his nose and squeezing his eyes shut against the tears as the skeletal machination became visible. This couldn't be real. He would never feel whole again. How was he supposed to use the force or connect with his lightsaber? Nothing would ever feel right again.

 

He threw the glove at the wall with his flesh hand, the motion was awkward and pathetic. He could fight with either, they'd all been taught how. But his right hand had been dominant, and now it was... gone. He blew air forcefully out his nose in frustration. Why did the universe hate him? Why had he been made to suffer? Why did everything horrible happen to him?

 

Dropping onto his bed he stared at the floor, shaking as the pain overwhelmed him. He'd yelled at his master, he'd thrown a fit, he'd whined and cried and thrown things until he'd been kicked out of the healing ward. But what did they expect? Him to wake up and see a robotic, unnatural limb where his once very real arm had been and just shrug his shoulders? Who was he kidding? That's exactly what they'd expected. Jedi or not, didn't he have a right to be angry over the injustice of sacrificing a limb for the Republic? Especially now that they were at war with the Separatists? To not feel anger over this was unnatural, that was his opinion anyways. Not that he'd ever dare utter it to Obi wan. He'd never understand.

 

They'd told him to give it time. With training, he'd learn to use it as comfortably as his own hand. He didn't believe them. It was nothing like a real hand. He held it out and took a deep breath. Concentrating, he tried to reach through it to summon his lightsaber to his hand. He could feel the force move down his arm but then it would just stop when it hit the hunk of metal that poorly resembled a human limb. Try as he might, he couldn't coax it past where the metal was fused to his skin. He sighed and dropped his arms to his sides. It was hopeless. He'd never be the same again.

 

He turned to lay down on the bed, but his new appendage buckled under the weight and he howled in pain as it torqued what was left of his arm on that side. He collapsed onto the mattress, curling into a ball and crying like a child. He wished his mother was here right now. But thinking about her brought a fresh rush of pain and he threw the blanket over his head and sobbed uselessly into the flat pillow.

 

Sleep never came as he rocked back and forth uncomfortably. He finally threw the blanket off him and some paper fluttered out from under his bed. He slid to the floor and reached awkwardly for his sketchbook. He sat back against the table and tried to carefully open it up. Which was harder than it seemed. The mechanical fingers were blunt and clunky; they may as well have been useless in picking up one sheet at a time. The hand was jerky and kept sending shooting pain up into his shoulder and neck.

 

He tried to take deep breaths to calm himself down, but it wasn't helping enough. He finally put the sketchbook down on the floor and opened it with his left hand. Several pages slid out at the gust of opening it and he picked them up one by one. He'd drawn many things over the years, mostly people. Sketching had been a way to relax and meditate since sitting still for hours was hard for him. His drawings ranged from people close to him to random people he'd come across on the street. Sometimes they were just a simple sketch of an observation that had stuck in his memory. Like someone's jewelry or a ship he liked the look of. Other times they were detailed portraits or character studies of a person he'd watched.

 

As he flipped through it, it chronicled much of his life. There were memories from Tatooine intermingled with obsessive sketches of how he imagined Padmé must look at different ages. Page after page of her eyes or the curve of her lips, the shape of her face, even the way her hair had fallen down her shoulders. This was why he never shared his sketches with anyone. He doubted any of the Jedi even knew he could draw. That was just fine with him, these were his and his alone.

 

His fingers curled awkwardly around a specific sheet and he brought it up and set it on his knees. The metal fingers brushed across her cheek, a tear fell onto the page smudging the charcoal. She was his favorite subject. The one person he drew the most. Even more than Padmé. "I miss you, mom." He hugged the paper to his chest. "I don't know what to do. I don't know what I am anymore. I'm lost without you. I failed you! Maybe this arm is a just punishment after all. Why didn't I return for you sooner? Why did I let them keep me away?" he sobbed to the portrait of his mother.


End file.
